A/n: sorry about the long wait. I've kinda had my fair share of stress in the last few weeks. I hope you enjoy the latest entailment! Thanks again for your encouragement. Xxx
Should I just tell him? Should I just swallow my fear, and my pain, and my confusion, and tell John everything? I had been planning to do so. I remembered. I remembered how I had been so truly happy, with the knowing that I was finally going to tell him the truth. Finally get to know how he felt about me. Finally (maybe) get to stroke his expressive face, and feel the soft strands of his military cut hair.
I had again, got to the point where living with the feeling so burning and painful in my chest was too much to bare without expressing it. There were regrets that I hadn't said it before. I had been given the chance. John had leant close, so close to me, and asked me if I loved him. Though the latter wasn't really an option anymore, keeping it closed up was more painful than I could expect.
I hadn't answered.
John sits across from me, in his armchair by the fire. He's reading the newspaper that he's already read more than three times before, and I realise that it is an effort to distract himself. But from what? I breathe evenly, and glance across to him.
Immediately, just seeing his face causes my throat to close up. I try to find the words. To tell him in the way that I had planned that night.
It was hard. Very hard. For the first time in my life, I had neither the courage, or the words, to bring up the situation. John seemed so peaceful sitting there. So at ease. The worry lines that usually decorated his face seemed more smoothed out. There was a gentle softness in those eyes as he scanned the inky pages of the newspaper.
I couldn't say anything. I couldn't. As much as I tried. Simply because one question, one in particular, kept swimming around my mind. Like an eternal kaleidoscope.
What would happen next?
Emotions were never really my area, and this was worse. Much worse. I had spent weeks and weeks trying to figure out how exactly I would approach the subject with John. But now, circumstances had changed, and yet I still needed to tell him.
The memory of his hug. Lingering against my skin. That smell. His smell. So close. His soft eyelashes fluttering lightly against my neck. There was conflict. So much conflict in my mind. Too much emotion to make sense of in my usual logical way. There was an ache. Lodged still in my chest. A bottomless hole that seemed to eat away at me. The terrible, never ending longing for his touch. Wishing he would hug me again. The bitter sweet pain of knowing, even through the warmth of the hug, that I still wasn't good enough. Never had been, never will. I was never anybody's first choice. The reason why I hated emotions.
Right there, in that quiet moment, looking at John from across the room. Knowing that my watching was going as unnoticed as my feelings, hurt. But I guess I needed to try to get used to it.
It was during this week, when something seemed to change behind John's expressive eyes. As much as I tried, I couldn't quite put my finger on what it was. He seemed more nervous and confused. As if he could sense something that I couldn't (which was ridiculous because I noticed everything). With myself being wrapped up in a haze of pain and longing, I found it hard to find time to concentrate on much apart from my flatmate, and it became, as the week progressed, more and more obvious that something was worrying him.
It was Friday, and I stood quietly by the window, my fingers caressing the strings of my violin. They were rough yet smooth at the same time: paradox.
I plucked, rearranging my fingers, finding a D minor chord. The moody note resonated through my core, and I listened to it fade away into the silence of the otherwise empty flat.
Pick up the bow, run the fibres over the strings. The sound was quiet and long, and I pondered for a little. Muscle memory moved my fingers into the position to play my favourite piece. A composition I'd named Moment. I don't know why I named it moment. Still, it fitted. Begin to play quietly. I closed my eyes. Let the feel and voice of the music speak out, flooding with everything I never said. Emotion I hated having.
Moment. It was a reflection of how I played it, depending on the moment. Every time it changed. Sometimes it was happy, springy, sometimes vicious, angry, sometimes careless. Today, Moment seemed sad. Though the chords were a complex mix of both major and minor, I suppose the way I played it was different. Behind my closed eyes, John appeared, and suddenly the music was intensely sad. It was anguish. It was too beautiful to be for something so unbelievably confusing and sad.
I stopped abruptly, opened my eyes to gaze out to the bleak street. I took a deep breath.
"Why did you stop?"
I jumped, panicky. John.
John wasn't supposed to be back yet.
John wasn't supposed to be back.
And the worst thing was, I should have heard him come up the stairs.
I quickly bring up my bow to the strings again, and my fingers move back to D minor. I play the note, and quickly make up a tune. It's uneasy and harsh. I can't compose with my thoughts all frazzled like they were.
"Sherlock-," John begins.
No, I don't want to listen. My fingers move again. Auld Lang Syne? Interesting choice- rather unseasonal. Too joyful.
I needed a case. A distraction. I would email Lestrade. Hope nothing boring comes up...
"Sherlock-,"
Too many attempts to get my attention. I repeat Auld Lang Syne. Too joyful.
Warmth, on my back, moving across my shoulders. Warmth. Gentle fingertips, gentle palms. John's hands, against my back.
I stiffen. A warmth creeps up from inside my chest and I can't repel it. I try to continue to play, but my mind is unfocused. The notes are wrong (I've never gotten notes wrong in my entire life). I stop.
"I need to talk to you Sherlock," John says softly from right behind me. I don't reply. I don't say or do anything.
"Sherlock,"
I stare out of the window, to across the street. It's dark and bleak out there. What was I supposed to say? I wasn't sure whether I could string two words together with John's hands on my shoulders.
And yet the desire to know what he wanted to talk about was growing ever stronger, a persistent hornet in my mind. My natural curiosity awakened. I wondered for a moment which emotion was the strongest.
Eventually, my curiosity won; though I still found it hard to talk. I opened my mouth, swallowed painfully.
"What?" My voice is a broken monotone. I clear my throat, slowly lower my bow.
"I need to talk to you,"
"What about?" I sound snappish. I don't mean to be.
"You,"
My throat closed up completely, and suddenly I wished that I had the will to continue playing.
"What about me?"
John took a deep, long breath, the way he would before he says something important. I brace myself.
"I felt the way you reacted to that hug the other day,"
His words bring back painful memories. Suddenly, I feel as though I'm drowning in sensations. Recalling his warmth and his smell and his strength, and then burning up with the pain of it all. I stiffen. Become marble in his hands.
"You leant into me, Sherlock, you hugged me back," his fingers tensed, and resulted in my own tensing, "why?
I needed words. I needed words. Thoughts span around my head dizzyingly.
"You needed comfort," I said, slowly, testing the words out, "you were upset,"
"Cut the crap Sherlock, you know as well as I, you don't give comfort to anyone,"
I sighed. I could express my thoughts- my true thoughts- to him right now. I could tell him everything. But how could when I had difficultly phrasing the words?
"I-," I began quietly.
John's hands suddenly became rough and urgent on my shoulder, and I found myself being turned around to face him. He had a curious, almost furious expression on his face. I found myself once again in the position of gazing into his eyes. And finding nothing but complexity within them.
"I'm going to do an experiment Sherlock," John said, "and I'm going on what you said to me in that hospital,"
What had I said?
What had I said?
I furiously tried to remember my desperate words. The desperate words spoken from a suppressed, desperate heart.
"What experiment?" I whispered, wondering why my heart was hammering so furiously in my chest. Why John had such a profound effect on my sanity.
There was a pause, and John bit his lip anxiously. The strange look I had been seeing in his eyes for weeks surfacing once again. Experiments were not John's area. They were mine. What experiment did John want to do?
Finally, he spoke. His voice soft, barely there.
"This," he murmured.
And pulled me in.
A/n: a nice little cliff hanger for you there. Let me know what you think! A review or two would cheer me up after what has been a miserable month. Thanks xxx